The Grapes of Wrath

It really doesn’t seem all that long ago.  Maybe a little more than ten years “BC” (before children) or so.  My wife and I were still just dating at the time.  The summer was creeping to a close.  Warm winds were being replaced by cooler ones from the northwest and all of the leaves were prepping themselves for nature’s fireworks.  It was my favorite season of the year. 

It was fall.  It was October.  It was wine festival season.

Back then, there were usually ten to fifteen of us crammed into a commuter van stocked with an allotment of food and beverage for the day.  Maybe a Lunchable or two in tow for the eternal bachelors aboard.  There were no plans, time constraints, or schedules.  Just a day of music, laughs, and fermented grape juice with friends.  That’s the romanticized version of how I remember it anyway.

Recently, my wife and I had received a flyer in the mail for an upcoming wine festival.  It had been ages since we had been to one.  Right about the time when the kids became a little too mobile to make them enjoyable.  The flyer stated that, on top of the ten wineries, there would also be activities for the kids.  It was pretty close to our old stomping grounds back then, so we decided to give it a try with some old friends.  This just sounded too good to pass up.  Fun for us and for the kids.  This was a sure-fire win-win.

That morning, however, it became pretty evident that the romanticized version I remember so vividly was going to be completely thrown out of the window.  The car was completely packed with booster seats, running stroller, diaper bag as well as toys, snacks, and changes of clothes for the kids.  In the end, there was just enough room for a couple homemade Lunchables for the kids, but apparently no room for the jovial adult foods of years past.  My wife and I would now be pairing merlots with animal crackers and string cheese. 

Upon arriving at the wine festival, we realized that it was lunch time and the kids were beginning to show signs of low blood sugar.  They were spiraling rapidly towards DEFCON3, so food had to be consumed…and soon.  We unpacked the stroller, bags, food, and toys from the car and migrated into the wine festival like vagabonds fleeing the Dust Bowl.  The only thing missing was the family of livestock tied to the back of my Sonata.

After setting up a blanket, I stood to take in the atmosphere.  Music as well as smells of wine and food filled the air.  It was a lot like I remembered.  Except for the part with my kids incessantly tugging at my shorts, wondering where the kid activities were.  After several trips around the grounds, we realized that there was only one ride for the kids.  One.  Stinkin’.  Ride.  A lawn-tractor pulling wheeled-barrels around in a circle.  Oh, and that face-painting tent.  There’s your plural for the kid activities.  Kudos to the flyer’s creator for their mastery of the English language.

The barrel ride was a hit for the first half hour.  But, as the afternoon wore on, the kids grew increasingly bored.  They wanted us to walk down to the river, play games, or read to them.  I can’t complain really.  Ten years from now, they’ll probably deny that we’re even related to them.  However, we were finding our opportunities to taste wine narrowing and opportunities to converse with old friends dwindling.  The nostalgic, carefree wine festival was becoming a parental juggling act.

The times that I was able to taste, I noted my surroundings.  At one point, I was standing next to two twenty-somethings reeking of expensive cologne and narcissism.  Their egos were vaguely familiar, but I’m well-aware that I misplaced such bravado eons ago.  Gelled hair, Polo sunglasses, and Armani dress shirt on one.  “Faux hawk”, Versace sunglasses, and matching designer shirt on the other.  A third walked up with similar garb.  Then there’s me.  Bald head, $15 Dockers “Danger Magnet” sunglasses from Kohl’s, $10 button-up dress shirt from Old Navy…and that stroller.  Eeny, meeny, miney, schmoe.

After five long minutes of their insufferable banter, I had an uncomfortable revelation.  Were my friends and I really this obnoxious at wine festivals, all those moons ago?  You’d have to replace their $200 Italian leather shoes with Timberlands and Vans, of course, but you see where I’m going.  We had a lot of fun back then and we were just as full of ourselves.  Not only did the parallel startle me, but I also suddenly wanted to hurt myself.  OK, I’ll admit it.  I really just wanted to hurt them.  The thought was surprisingly therapeutic to my self-loathing at that moment. 

Essentially, I chalked up the differences to a welcome change in my priorities.  I took solace knowing that over those ten years, I changed from thinking of myself first to thinking of the family first and myself last…without even thinking about it.  It just happened.  That was a lot of thinking.  At that point, I decided that I needed more wine to subdue any further maturity or enlightenment on my part. 

As I walked away, I humored myself by mumbling a famous Steinbeck quote.  “They's a time of change.”

Finally, it was time to go home.  Our kids were ecstatic.  I’ve never seen them leave anywhere as cooperatively as they did that afternoon.  As they cartwheeled towards the exit, I stopped, put my glass in the stroller’s drink holder, took in a deep breath, and looked around one last time. 

Nope.  I still wanted to hurt them.